"Dthose air yust the zame mountains I look on from my home in Peru; it ees von chain from Tierra del Fuego to Mexico," and a look of welcome comes into the handsome face. "It ees four years since I zee dthose Cordilleras. I am glad I am near dthem vonce more. _Ah!_" he exclaims, as we break through the close circle of the mountains, and, coming out on a wide plateau, a shining sheet of water bursts on our delighted vision. "Lake Amatitlan!" The world up here is wild and silent; one feels a breathless sense of discovery and is vaguely glad there is no trace of man. No canoe rises the waves save the grey feather-boat of the wild duck, and the majestic circling hawk is the only fisherman. "It was like this when Cortes saw it!" I say. "It was like this when God made it!" says Mrs. Steele, under her breath. The train stops by the lake and we gather wild Lantana and many a new flower during the few minutes' stay. I rush into a thicket after a red lily, and come out a mass of thorns and Spanish needles. When the train starts Mrs. Steele is tired, and goes inside to rest, but the Baron and I still stay on the platform. He sits on the top step and laboriously picks the needles off my dress. "You zee dthat smoke, Blanca? Dthat ees a volcano." "Oh, how delightful! but there's no fire!" "No, not at present!" "It's very disappointing," I say, "and the geography pictures are all wrong. They show a great burst of smoke and flame, and huge rocks shooting up out of the crater. I supposed a volcano was a sort of perpetual 'Fourth of July.'" "Fourdth of Yuly! how mean you?" "Oh, fireworks and explosions! but that little white funnel of steam--well, it's a disappointment!" "You vill zee dthree volcano near Guatemala; dthey air dthe 'spirits' of dthe place--call in Eenglish 'Air,' 'Fire' and 'Vater.' Zee on dthis leedle coin dthey haf all dthree mountains on dthe back." "Why, what's the matter with your hands?" I say, taking the coin. "All dthose burrs on your dress make bleed," he says, looking a bit ruefully at his finger-tips, sore and red, and one stained a little where some obstinate briar or needle has drawn the blood. "Oh! what a shame!" I take the shapely hand in mine and look compassionately at the hurt fingers. "I feel it not, Blanca, vhen you hold it so!" I drop the hand, instinctively steeling myself against all show of sympathy with this boyish sentimentalism. "It should teach you a lesson. You take too much care of your hands; they are whiter and softer than most women's--such hands are good for nothing." "I vill show you you can be meestake." His face is quite changed, and there's something dimly threatening in the deep eyes. "When will you show me?" I say, affecting a carelessness I do not quite feel. "Perhaps in Guatemala." I leave that side of the platform and lean out over the other. "Come back, Blanca; it ees not zafe!"